


No Word of Farewell

by hafital



Category: Highlander: The Series
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2003-04-24
Updated: 2003-04-24
Packaged: 2017-10-28 03:55:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 715
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/303462
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hafital/pseuds/hafital
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for the Fifteen Minute Challenge. No word of farewell.</p>
            </blockquote>





	No Word of Farewell

After Bordeaux, after Byron, they sat quietly in the crimson light of the bar with the soft strumming music of Joe and his guitar behind them, sharing a bottle of whiskey. The night at its end, or nearly so. The chime on the door signaled the last of the patrons leaving. And they sat, settling into that space that happens at the end of day, at the end of a life, at the end that always turns into the beginning.

Methos tilted the bottle and watched the amber liquid hug the sides of its glass cage. Click. Slosh. He poured what was left into his glass, into Mac's glass. The lights over the bar shimmered at the edge of his vision. Slightly distorted. He downed the rest of his whiskey.

He looked at MacLeod, bathed in red light, and he seemed to shimmer also, just along the edges, like frisson, like white noise for the naked eye, and Methos thought perhaps he'd had too much to drink. He looked around and the room appeared to breathe in. And out. Contract. Expand. He looked at MacLeod again.

Brown eyes shimmered, a brief glance at Methos then down at the glass in his hand, fingers caressing the rim. MacLeod finished his whiskey and placed the glass on the table. He stood up and put his coat on. He waited by their table, silent.

Methos rose and they walked out. Cold air, sharp in his lungs, cutting through the fog in his head. He turned to MacLeod. He still shimmered, even more so under the light of Paris at night.

Methos' throat tightened and he looked down at his feet, his hands in his pockets. They stood close, as if prolonging the eventual good-bye.

Perhaps it was the alcohol.  Or the horror of the day. Or the light in MacLeod's eyes. Perhaps it was inevitable, like endings and beginnings.

Methos bowed his head against MacLeod's shoulder and closed his eyes. Hands on the back of his neck, fingers in his hair. Arms around him. Breath against his skin.

"Come home with me."

Methos lifted his head and looked at MacLeod who dropped his hands and withdrew his arms. Searching eyes, bruised with the weight of blood and death and life and love. Methos reached up and touched just under those dark and bruised eyes, a thumb across a cheekbone.

Slowly, he leaned in to meet MacLeod and they kissed, softly. They kissed, lips parting. They kissed, breathing in sharply. They parted and kissed again, hard, fingers and hands catching and clutching. They kissed, inviting groans into open mouths.

"Can you drive?" asked Methos, muffled.

"No."

"Damn."

They stepped back. MacLeod smiled at him, a little sadness showing, but only a little. He took Methos' hand in his. "Come on."

And MacLeod pulled Methos along the shimmering streets.

***

He shivered in the chill of the morning, staring through one of the portholes out to the slate gray waters of the Seine, tossing in turmoil. He wrapped himself in a bed sheet. The barge creaked and rocked beneath his feet.

He looked back at the silent lump on his bed, a flank of pale skin glowing in the white light of morning. Inviting, and warm. Methos' arm draped in a careless gesture across a pillow, hand falling open.

He turned back to the porthole. The pale sky spoke of emptiness. The river spoke of change. The silent lump in his bed spoke of the heart.

Silently, he dressed. Silently, he looked down at his sleeping Methos; pressed a light kiss to his forehead. Silently, he left.

***

Silently, Methos felt the soft touch of Mac's lips, heard the quiet steps across the barge, the slight creak of the door open and close.

***

"Absolutely not."

Methos turned his back and heard MacLeod weep and walk away.  


***

  
Methos searched, only so much as to confirm MacLeod was not in Paris.

He searched the streets first, needing the aimlessness of driving, and passed through the silent forgotten corners and the hollowed out crevices that seemed to invite the lost. Then the park. Along the Seine. The bar. Even his flat, on the off chance. Finally the barge.

Empty.

He closed the barge as best as he knew how. Then, silently, he left.

***

the end.

 


End file.
